An overwhelming curiosity seized him to find out how it had all ended. The ten minutes of grace which followed the ringing of the lockup bell had passed. Drummond and the rest must be back by now.
He went down the passage to Drummond’s study. Somebody was inside. He could hear him.
He knocked at the door.
Drummond was sitting at the table reading. He looked up, and there was a silence. Sheen’s mouth felt dry. He could not think how to begin. He noticed that Drummond’s face was unmarked. Looking down, he saw that one of the knuckles of the hand that held the book was swollen and cut.
“Drummond, I—”
Drummond lowered the book.
“Get out,” he said. He spoke without heat, calmly, as if he were making some conventional remark by way of starting a conversation.
“I only came to ask—”
“Get out,” said Drummond again.
There was another pause. Drummond raised his book and went on reading.
Sheen left the room.
Outside he ran into Linton. Unlike Drummond, Linton bore marks of the encounter. As in the case of the hero of Calverley’s poem, one of his speaking eyes was sable. The swelling of his lip was increased. There was a deep red bruise on his forehead. In spite of these injuries, however, he was cheerful. He was whistling when Sheen collided with him.
“Sorry,” said Linton, and went on into the study.
“Well,” he said, “how are you feeling, Drummond? Lucky beggar, you haven’t got a mark. I wish I could duck like you. Well, we have fought the good fight. Exit Albert—sweep him up. You gave him enough to last him for the rest of the term. I couldn’t tackle the brute. He’s as strong as a horse. My word, it was lucky you happened to come up. Albert was making hay of us. Still, all’s well that ends well. We have smitten the Philistines this day. By the way—”
“What’s up now?”
“Who was that chap with you when you came up?”
“Which chap?”
“I thought I saw someone.”
“You shouldn’t eat so much tea. You saw double.”
“There wasn’t anybody?”
“No,” said Drummond.
“Not Sheen?”
“No,” said Drummond, irritably. “How many more times do you want me to say it?”
“All right,” said Linton, “I only asked. I met him outside.”
“Who?”
“Sheen.”
“Oh!”
“You might be sociable.”
“I know I might. But I want to read.”
“Lucky man. Wish I could. I can hardly see. Well, goodbye, then. I’m off.”
“Good,” grunted Drummond. “You know your way out, don’t you?”
Linton went back to his own study.
“It’s all very well,” he said to himself, “for Drummond to deny it, but I’ll swear I saw Sheen with him. So did Dunstable. I’ll cut out and ask him about it after prep. If he really was there, and cut off, something ought to be done about it. The chap ought to be kicked. He’s a disgrace to the house.”
Dunstable, questioned after preparation, refused to commit himself.
“I thought I saw somebody with Drummond,” he said, “and I had a sort of idea it was Sheen. Still, I was pretty busy at the time, and wasn’t paying much attention to anything, except that long, thin bargee with the bowler. I wish those men would hit straight. It’s beastly difficult to guard a round-arm swing. My right ear feels like a cauliflower. Does it look rum?”
“Beastly. But what about this? You can’t swear to Sheen then?”
“No. Better give him the benefit of the doubt. What does Drummond say? You ought to ask him.”
“I have. He says he was alone.”
“Well, that settles it. What an ass you are. If Drummond doesn’t know, who does?”
“I believe he’s simply hushing it up.”
“Well, let us hush it up, too. It’s no good bothering about it. We licked them all right.”
“But it’s such a beastly thing for the house.”
“Then why the dickens do you want it to get about? Surely the best thing you can do is to dry up and say nothing about it.”
“But something ought to be done.”
“What’s the good of troubling about a man like Sheen? He never was any good, and this doesn’t make him very much worse. Besides, he’ll probably be sick enough on his own account. I know I should, if I’d done it. And, anyway, we don’t know that he did do it.”
“I’m certain he did. I could swear it was him.”
“Anyhow, for goodness’ sake let the thing drop.”
“All right. But I shall cut him.”
“Well, that would be punishment enough for anybody, whatever he’d done. Fancy existence without your bright conversation. It doesn’t bear thinking of. You do look a freak with that eye and that lump on your forehead. You ought to wear a mask.”
“That ear of yours,” said Linton with satisfaction, “will be about three times its ordinary size tomorrow. And it always was too large. Good night.”
On his way back to Seymour’s, Mason of Appleby’s, who was standing at his house gate imbibing fresh air, preparatory to going to bed, accosted him.
“I say, Linton,” he said, “—hullo, you look a wreck, don’t you!—I say, what’s all this about your house?”
“What about my house?”
“Funking, and all that. Sheen, you know. Stanning has just been telling me.”
“Then he saw him, too!” exclaimed Linton, involuntarily.
“Oh, it’s true, then? Did he really cut off like that? Stanning said he did, but I wouldn’t believe him at first. You aren’t going? Good night.”
So the thing was out. Linton had not counted on Stanning having seen what he and Dunstable had seen. It was impossible to hush it up now. The scutcheon of Seymour’s was definitely blotted. The name of the house was being held up to scorn in Appleby’s, probably everywhere else as well. It was a nuisance, thought Linton, but it could not be helped. After all, it was a judgment on the house for harbouring such a specimen as Sheen.
In Seymour’s there was tumult and an
